The Art of Divination and Other Stories
by Victory in Chains
Summary: Order of the Lily AU, Worldbuilding. Harry's first Divination class, as it should have been. Now incorporating further tales of the Lily-verse.
1. The Art of Divination

The Art of Divination

 **2 September 1993 - Hogwarts - North Tower**

Sybill Trelawney barely refrained from smirking to herself as she wrapped up in innumerable shawls before her first class of the cohort that included Harry Potter. She'd been surprised by her roster. She knew Dumbledore held her discipline in low esteem, and McGonagall followed in his lead.

 _I wonder if something about Transfiguration makes its wielders rigid thinkers,_ she mused, waiting for the time to tick down. She had not anticipated the presence of Mr. Potter, who was widely reputed to be the Headmaster's protege, or that of Miss Granger, who idolized her Head of House. _Perhaps their presence will lead to the Art being viewed with greater esteem,_ Sybill hoped.

As the clock ticked over to nine, Professor Trelawney flicked her wand towards the trapdoor, loosing it and letting the stepladder rattle downwards. She smiled at the startled gasps of her students below. _It never gets old,_ she thought.

"Come, my dears! Come," she called, pitching her voice to carry, despite the breathy, ethereal quality of tone she affected. "Don't be shy. And in this one instance, gentlemen ascend first!"

Hermione Granger's face was flushed red as she burst through the trapdoor into the tower, realizing the import of Professor Trelawney's admonition. She clutched her books tighter and scurried to a seat.

Professor Trelawney waited patiently for the class to enter her tower and be seated. "Welcome, students. How nice to see your faces in the waking world at last. I see eighteen faces, and I expected eighteen students, but to be sure, this is OWL Divination, Year One, Ravenclaw-Slytherin-Gryffindor. Does anyone present not belong?"

She waited thirty seconds for her students to assure themselves that they did in fact belong, before continuing, "You are here to learn the Art of Divination. Let us begin by defining Divination. Does anyone wish to attempt to do so?" Miss Granger raised her hand immediately. Sybill waited for five seconds, and then gestured. "Miss Granger."

"Divination," Hermione stated clearly, "Is the art by which signs and portents from magic may be interpreted to aid prognostication."

"A concise summary of the definition espoused by Unfogging the Future, your course book. Thank you Miss Granger." Hermione beamed. "Also entirely wrong." Hermione looked quite startled at that pronouncement.

Sybill rose from her seat and glided around the room as she spoke, "The Art of Divination is nothing more, nor anything less, than the use of magic to gather data or information. All of you have used a divination at least once. Take a moment to think on what I've just told you, and try and identify the divination in question." Sybill waited and hoped. She hadn't yet had anyone answer this successfully, but this year's cohort included some of the school's best. After forty-five seconds she added, "As a hint, you learned it in first year charms."

Three seconds later Miss Granger's hand was again in the air. Sybill smiled and nodded to her, making a gesture that she should wait. After another few moments had passed, she called out, "Miss Granger?"

"The time charm, Tempus," she said.

"Excellent!" Sybill clapped her hands together once, smiling broadly. "Ten points to Gryffindor. Miss Granger is correct. The time charm is indeed a Divination.

"The Ministry of Magic has a schizophrenic relationship with the subject of Divination. You may have noticed that I am mildly contemptuous of your textbook, Unfogging the Future. That's because it's a horrible book and nearly useless as a guide to Divination. I assigned it because it's the best of a very bad lot not on the Ministry's restricted book list and the headmaster would not allow me to not assign a book.

"You, boy," she called, gesturing imperiously to Neville Longbottom, "is your grandmother well?"

"I th-think so," Neville answered.

"Shall we find out?" Sybill asked. Turned from the students she made another theatrical gesture towards the corner, and a much subtler gesture with her wand. A sheet whipped away from a large, circular mirror set up in the corner, neatly folding itself to the side.

"Ge-ree-ah, te-li-oom, ge-ree-ah, vi-si-oom," she intoned, following the chant with careful steps and broad gestures in front of the mirror. "Mag-na-fi-um, mag-na-fi-um." Sybill followed the chant with her own magic, letting the mnemonic guide the shape of the magic. She repeated the whole invocation six times more, and called out, "OSTENS!"

The mirror flared with white light, leaving spots dancing in the vision of all those attending to the demonstration. Sybill sagged slightly, and Parvati Patil sprang from her seat, offering the professor a hand. "Thank you, Miss Patil the Elder," Professor Trelawney murmured as Parvati handed her into her seat.

Where before the mirror reflected the classroom atop the North Tower, now it provided a window into an elegant tearoom. Seated at a graceful-looking table was a tall, stern-faced woman with a stuffed vulture hat, taking her breakfast. She glanced up, directly to the mirror, and gave a genteel wave.

"That's Gran!" Neville exclaimed.

"And she does appear to be quite well," Trelawney continued, "Does she not?"

"Yes, Professor," Neville responded.

"Thank her for assisting me the next time you write to her, Mister Longbottom. We arranged for this demonstration over the summer.

"Divination," Trelawney declared, "is the art of knowledge. An OWL in the subject is required by the Auror Academy, by Gringotts' Curse Breaking division, by St. Mungo's Healer Apprenticeship Program, and by all Magical Construction and Engineering jobs." Another dramatic gesture, covering a much more subtle motion of her wand, caused the image in the mirror to ripple and fade, returning to a simple reflection.

"The Ministry of Magic accepts the necessity of educating young diviners, but they do their very best to make it quite difficult to actually practice divination. Someone aside from Miss Granger venture a guess as to the logic."

After a short pause, Ron Weasley's hand was lifted into the air. Sybill nodded and made a beckoning gesture. "It's about keeping secrets, isn't it?"

"A sensible answer. More specifically, it's about the invasion of privacy and power imbalances. You all observed me scry upon Augusta Longbottom just now. I am, unashamedly, the weakest magical adult in the school. Most of the seventh-year students and a few of the sixth-year students are more powerful than I. But I was able to observe Dame Longbottom from 350 miles away, using the more power intensive version of the spell that allowed her to see me, as well.

"But to BLOCK such a casting requires almost twenty times the amount of power," Trelawney continued. "We will go into the reasons why during the last term of your OWL year. Questions?"

To no one's surprise, Hermione lifted her hand. Sybill pointed, "Miss Granger?"

"What was the chant you did to see Dame Longbottom?"

"Theatre, mostly," Sybill answered. "More accurately, it was a multi-sensory mnemonic designed to help me shape my magic into what's technically called a discernment web with weeking, visual components.

"One of the reasons that Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall disapprove of Divination is that it's much less precise than the core disciplines. Divination is more about intuition and feeling than technical precision. Any other questions?"

There were none.

"Then for homework, list five occupations where Divination would be useful or necessary, why, and how it could be used. Class dismissed, gentlemen, the ladies descend the stair first. Miss Granger, please remain behind."

Hermione fidgeted as the rest of the class exited the tower, worrying at her fingers. Being asked to remain left her uncomfortable. Professor Trelawney smiled reassuringly as the students departed. Once the room was clear she doffed her heavy glasses and began unwrapping the shawls.

"Step into my office, Miss Granger," she directed, her voice crisper and much richer than her classroom voice. Together the two entered the office that was against the outer edge of the tower. Hermione was taken aback. The outer wall had been replaced or enchanted - it was sheet glass floor to ceiling. A low table, sofa, and two settees were arranged comfortably to one side of the door, and a simply appointed desk with two guest chairs on the other. None of the frills and furbelows Hermione expected were in the office, it was almost stark in simplicity.

Professor Trelawney seated herself behind the desk, gesturing for Hermione to take a seat opposite. "Miss Granger, let me first say I'm very proud of you. I've been teaching this course since 1981, and every year I've asked about what divinations students might have already used. You are the first student to correctly answer."

Hermione pinked slightly at the praise. "Thank you, professor."

"Now, you noticed that your course section excluded the students of Hufflepuff House. Do you know why?"

Hermione paused, and then shook her head, "No, ma'am, I don't."

"It's because of the way Hufflepuff students generally react to failure," Trelawney explained. "Broadly, when a Hufflepuff attempts something and fails, their first response is to try again, with more focus, more concentration, more precision, more **effort**.

"That is an admirable and usually effective reaction to being unsuccessful. It is also exactly the wrong method to use with divinations. The Hufflepuff students are segregated from the rest of the houses for the first two terms because they require a different sort of instruction, to break them of their habits.

"I've spoken with your Head of House, and she suggests that your reactions to being unsuccessful are congruent with that of a typical Hufflepuff. Do you agree?"

Hermione frowned as she thought about it, finding the self-examination uncomfortable. After a few moments she nodded, "Yes, ma'am. Professor McGonagall was correct in her evaluation."

Sybill nodded briskly. "Then I recommend, but do not require, that you transfer to the Hufflepuff section. I am aware you may prefer to be with your housemates, but I think you will find the instruction in the Hufflepuff section more useful. Please let me know by the Monday."

"Yes, ma'am," Hermione assented. "Professor?"

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"Why all the… drama? Why the costume?"

Sybill smiled indulgently, "Miss Granger, I'm well aware of the contempt in which the Headmaster holds my discipline. And he has been the most influential voice in education for four generations. My students come to me with prejudices and expectations.

"I indulge them because if I match their expectations, they're paying attention to the course material, not trying to reconcile their prejudices with reality. You're dismissed, good day, Miss Granger."

"Good day, professor."

 _fin_

 **A/N** : I owe the inspiration for this to someone whose story I unfortunately cannot remember. I DO remember that in the story Divination as a discipline was considered a violation of the Statute of Secrecy, that it involved a Harry Potter/Daphne Greengrass/Somebody triad, and that the three protagonists learned proper divination from an OC ghost who predated the statute and was bound to a tree (I think a Yew tree)


	2. Preface

I had originally planned this as a basic one-off, a little vignette into the Lily-Verse. As I work on Harry Potter and the Order of the Lily, though, I've found more and more that scenes from the Lily-verse keep popping into my head that don't have a place in the proper tale.

The Order of the Lily is an action-adventure tale. But behind it is a ridiculous amount of world-building (Seriously, for every ten minutes I spend on plot/structure, I spend an hour world-building). The canon HP-verse doesn't really lend itself to action, or… much of anything. It's actually very loosely built. I needed a more rigid structure to work with, so as I work on my story, I fill in the background details in my trusty little notebook.

Many, MANY of those never make it into the story even as a throwaway reference. The story's not about how the world works, it's about treasure-hunting! So what to do?

I originally wrote 'The Art of Divination' because I couldn't get the scene out of my head. I had to get it written down to make it go away. It's turned out to be my most popular story (and that's just a boggle to me), and it IS a nice bit of world building. So I've decided to make it the front of a repository for all the scenes that delve more into how the world works that I keep excising from The Order of the Lily.

I expect that most of these will be framed as Hogwarts classes attended by the protagonists. It's an easy bit of framing since they're already in school. If you want to explain why _Wingardium Leviosa_ can't be used to levitate a person, the most natural setting to do so is Charms class (Answer: In the Lilyverse, 'charms' can ONLY be applied to inanimate objects. If you want to levitate a person, you use _Mobilicorpus_ , which is technically a 'hex').

Now, without further ado, I present: 'Applied Logic; or, the Debacle of the Philosopher's Stone'


	3. Applied Logic

Applied Logic; or, the Debacle of the Philosopher's Stone

 **Author's Note:** One of the most common conventions of Harry Potter fanfiction is that the ridiculousness of The Philosopher's Stone means that the whole first-year adventure **has** to be Dumbledore screwing with Harry. The reality, of course, is that it falls under the "MST3K Mantra". I propose… an alternate explanation.

* * *

 **5 August 1995 - Hogwarts - Headmaster's Office**

Harry remained behind as his three companions left the office, their joint business concluded. As Neville looked back, Harry nodded reassuringly; he didn't need his friend's support in this. As the door shut, Harry gave his wand a gentle twist and muttered a quiet incantation, transfiguring his chair into something more comfortable. This was a personal meeting, not a professional one.

Dumbledore watched the whole thing with a gentle smile and a touch of pride.

"Headmaster," Harry began, "I'm hesitantly willing to work with you, but I have… concerns. Hogwarts is an acceptable institution for students learning magic. For teaching students to **think** it's something of a failure. I like to believe that I've since learned to think."

"An admirable skill. One we perhaps do need to better cultivate in our students," Dumbledore agreed. "But I do believe that that was a preface to your true concerns?"

"Correct," Harry answered. "So tell me… just **what** was going on during my first year? I never really questioned it at the time, but looking back..."

"It was quite a debacle," the Headmaster acknowledged with a faint smile. "But what do you **really** know about what happened that year?"

"I know the Philosopher's Stone was protected by a series of," Harry raised his hands and bracketed the words with airquotes, "'traps' that two barely-competent and one highly competent first-years bypassed."

Dumbledore smiled more widely. "Do you?" he asked leadingly, "Do you really?"

Harry hesitated. And then shook his head. "No, I guess I don't. Will you explain, Professor?"

"Very good!" Dumbledore clapped his hands excitedly. "Let us begin with certain premises.

"Given that Lord Voldemort has been defeated but not conquered," Dumbledore counted in the air with a finger.

"Given that the symbol of that defeat will be attending Hogwarts next year," Dumbledore raised a second finger.

"And given that you believe Lord Voldemort's overriding priorities are, in order of importance, to acquire a corporeal form and to revenge himself on the symbol of his defeat," Dumbledore counted off with a third finger.

"What do you do?" he watched Harry with a penetrating gaze.

"I suppose," Harry began, "that I might, **might** ," he emphasized, "use the prospect of restoring a body as a diversion from targeting the symbol of defeat," he acknowledged. "But I wouldn't have made it so easy!" he cried, glaring fiercely at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore smiled indulgently and verbally prodded, "And you believe you are wiser now than I was during your first year?"

"Well, no," Harry admitted. "Which is why I'm confused."

"Ah," Dumbledore nodded. "Very well then. I shall explain."

"Please do," Harry gibed, and quailed a bit at Dumbledore's frown.

"I shall not chastise you for sarcasm," Dumbledore responded, "provided you still believe it appropriate when you have all the information. If you do not, I expect you will apologize."

"Yes, professor," Harry relented.

"Very good. Manners and politeness cost us nothing, after all.

"Now," Dumbledore began, "the true tale of your first year. I knew that Voldemort-"

"Sir," Harry interrupted. "Why do we call him Voldemort?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, Voldemort is a name he chose for himself," Harry answered. "By using it, we give him power over us. His **proper** name is 'Tom Riddle', so we should call him that and deny him a measure of power over us, shouldn't we?"

"Very good, Harry," Dumbledore praised. "Well reasoned. We shall do precisely that.

"So I knew that Riddle was still alive, if not very active. I knew that his defeat at your mother's hands (though the world at large believed it at yours) would vex him sorely. And I knew that you could not be hidden any longer. So I conspired.

"I felt myself rather clever, actually," Dumbledore admitted. "I met with Nicolas and we agreed on a plan. We would spread rumors that attempts were being made on the Philosopher's Stone, and that he had asked me to take a hand in securing it.

"Tom would find the lure of the Stone impossible to resist. Directly at hand, a means to restore himself! He would find it much easier to revenge himself on you once restored. So the Stone was moved to Gringotts and work began on the 'security' for it here at Hogwarts."

"Why Gringotts?" Harry asked.

"I suspected that Quirrell had been compromised," Dumbledore acknowledged. "I knew his journeys had taken him to Albania, and I knew that Tom had gone into hiding there. So I applied a bit of misdirection. I let it be known that our 'security measures' at Hogwarts would be finished in mid-August, and the Stone would be moved then."

"When everything was actually ready by my birthday," Harry nodded. "If you suspected Quirrell was compromised, why let him stay?"

"First, I hoped I was wrong," Dumbledore answered. "Second, suspicion is not cause for termination. And third, I knew who to watch.

"Now, would you like to know a secret, Harry?" Dumbledore grinned mischievously as Harry nodded. "The Philosopher's Stone is on Albus Dumbledore's watch pin." Before Harry's eyes, magic **twisted** , revealing an odd red gem mounted on the Headmaster's watch pin.

"But- but-" Harry stammered.

"And it has been since the 31st of July, 1991," Dumbledore went on over Harry's sputtering. "So when Professor McGonagall told you that the Stone was perfectly safe, she was telling you the truth." Harry flushed slightly at the memory. Dumbledore grinned, "You are now in possession of a secret known to only five people: Myself, Nicolas, Perenelle, Minerva, and now you."

Harry blushed with pride. "Thank you for your trust, Headmaster."

"But the Stone was always secure," Dumbledore continued. "Merely securing it on my watch pin would serve no purpose as a lure. Tom's patience, never great, would certainly not endure for an entire year. No, we needed a diversion."

"Wait a moment, sir," Harry interrupted. Dumbledore paused and waited for him to continue. "If you just needed a diversion, why bring the real Stone at all? Wouldn't it be better to leave it where it was and let rumor do the rest?"

"An excellent question," Dumbledore looked delighted. "Powerful magic - and the Philosopher's Stone is **very** powerful magic - leaves traces on its surroundings, even when they're not directly affected by the magic," he answered. "The Stone needed to be present so that Tom could detect those traces, otherwise he would have become suspicious.

"Now," he leaned back, looking at Harry directly, "what do you know of warding?"

"Wards are anchored enchantments that secure an environment with different effects," Harry answered promptly.

"An accurate, though incomplete, answer," Dumbledore said. "A little history, then. The father of modern warding was Charles Babbage, who is incidentally also renowned in the muggle world as a pioneer in computing.

"Before Babbage, wards were very simple. They tested anything entering them, and if what crossed them didn't meet their set conditions, responded in some manner. Babbage proposed that wards could be 'decoupled', or broken down into separate 'testing' and 'response' wards. He then successfully did so, creating what we now call an Age Line. His groundbreaking demonstration changed the hair of anyone under ten crossing the line blue, anyone between ten and twenty yellow, and anyone over twenty red.

"So modern wards consist of two or more components, an identification component and a response component. During your first year, I placed an Age Line across the door leading into Fluffy's room."

"So," Harry interrupted, "The Age Line across the door detected how old people crossing it were, and…" his brow furrowed as he thought, "changed the challenges present based on the age of the one crossing the line?"

"A good inference," Dumbledore praised. "More specifically, the chute which led you to the room with the Devil's Snare had trap doors which switched around, leading to different sequences depending on how old the intruders were."

"Hang on," Harry said, "How did I end up in the mirror room with Quirrell then?"

"Ah," Dumbledore blushed, "all the routes led to the same room. We wanted an easy way back from the last room and there's a one-way secret passage in there that leads to the entrance hall."

"So why'd you let me find the Mirror during the holidays?" Harry demanded.

"I didn't. The mirror wasn't part of the 'security measures' until **after** you discovered it. I only got the idea once you had discovered it. Before then the fake stone which you retrieved was on a plinth which was a portkey. If anyone, any object, or any magic approached within two meters, the portkey would activate and move the plinth to a random location within the last room.

"No, your encounter with the mirror was simply luck," Dumbledore finished.

"Why did you tell me that the Stone had been destroyed?"

"Disinformation," Dumbledore responded immediately. "Everyone save Professor McGonagall and the Flamels was told the same thing."

Harry made a moue and shook his head. "I feel like an idiot," he admitted. "Are you **sure** you were in Gryffindor?" he asked suspiciously.

Dumbledore smiled beatifically.

 _fin_

 **A/N 2:** Yes, modern wards in the Lily-verse are basically magical computer programs made up of case blocks, and Charles Babbage was a wizard.


	4. The Birth of House Potter

_"Great men are almost always bad men."  
_ _\- John Dalberg-Acton, 1st Baron Acton_

 **Autumn 546 CE - Dacre, Cumberland**

Nestled in the bend of a stream sat a small crofter's stead. One step up from a hut, the dwelling had unmortared limestone walls and a sloping roof of thatch, extending beyond the walls of the hut to provide a sheltering eave on each side. A smaller stone shed sat close to the bank of the river, with a tile roof and a tall chimney. Piles of coal were neatly heaped nearby.

One eave held a manger, freshly filled, in front of a hitching rail. Nearby ruts evidenced the absence of a cart of some sort. A straw doll in a canvas dress lay forgotten in front of the cottage, and planters bloomed with flowers near the front windows.

An older man, short and grey haired, was seated on a stool under the other eave, treadling a potter's wheel and casting what seemed to be a bowl. He wore canvas breeches, a heavy leather apron, and nothing else. He was spattered with dirt and clay, and didn't look up as hoofbeats rang on the nearby bridge.

"Goodman Crofter," called a hearty, cheerful voice. The man at the wheel kept his focus on shaping the clay beneath his fingers. "Have you any refreshment?"

"Good morrow, my dear sir," answered the old man, "I am Henry, son of James, son of Charles, the ninth potter at Goatsbow, and will be pleased to host you to sup on bread and cheese if you'll be patient that I may finish my toil."

"Thank you, Henry son of James. I am Bernard, son of Augustus, Knight Errant in service to Rex Arturio," the horseman answered, dismounting with a heavy drop and a gentle rattle. Shuffling and scuffling marked the knight's attendance to his horse and that of his squire.

"Be welcome to the Pottery at Goatsbow," Henry bade him. Bernard took a seat upon a nearby rock, watching with interest as the potter cast his clay. The squire, as was appropriate, watched his master for his cue. The two men and the lad sat in comfortable silence broken by the hum of the potter's wheel and the babble of the stream.

"Finished," declared Henry, removing his hands and letting the wheel spin down to stillness. He straightened his posture, spine cracking as he arched backwards. Bernard watched the bowl in wonder, smiling ruefully as the older man carried it to the small outbuilding.

"Would that my own hands could create such a thing," he said.

"All men have their own talents, my guest," comforted Henry.

"Aye, true enough," agreed Bernard. "But where yours add beauty and worth to the world, mine do but destroy."

"A man must be safe to be productive, sir knight," Henry remarked. "Men like me could not do what we do did men like you not place your blades and bodies between us and the rough world." Henry cleaned his hands in the stream, scouring the clay away with rough stone. Withdrawing into the cottage, he returned presently with a basket woven from reeds and a tall, beautiful ewer.

The ewer was the palest cream, almost bone white. Flat-bottomed, it was shaped like a stretched out tulip bulb, and shimmered like a pearl. Two graceful handles stretched from the base to the lip, fashioned after swan's necks, with subtle feathered textures and jet eyes, their beaks kissing the lip of the ewer. Around the broadest part of the base, picked out in lines of palest blue and gold, bears marched in an endless parade.

Bernard gasped at the sight. Such a vessel would be more likely found in a king's castle than a crofter's hut. Henry beamed at him with pride. "I made this when my son was courting his wife. It was his betrothal gift to her." Bernard offered his hands, and Henry poured water gently over them, then bathed his guest's hands.

"It's the loveliest thing I've ever seen not fashioned by the hand of God," Bernard confessed.

Hands cleaned, Henry carefully placed the ewer on a sturdy shelf under his potting eave, and served his guest a napkin filled with hard bread and soft cheese, and a heavy mug of stout brown beer. The half-meal passed in silence, contented on the potter's part, but growing more and more tense on the knight's.

"I must have it!" he cried, making Henry start in surprise.

"Pray pardon?" Henry asked.

"The ewer," Bernard answered. "I must have it!"

"Sir knight," Henry said firmly, "yon ewer is not mine to give, nor to sell, nor to trade." His countenance settled stonily, "It belongs to my daughter-by-marriage. Ask for the work of my hands, and no qualm shall I have granting accommodation. Ask for goods in trade, and I shall oblige. But in this, I cannot help.

"I cannot give you that which is not mine."

"Shall a son not honor his father?" challenged Bernard.

"And does not a father bear also a duty to his sons?" Henry answered. "One of care and fidelity."

"That vessel is as though it were made for meee-ai King!" Bernard shouted (1). "His arms a bear rampant in Or on a field Azure! His blade a gift from a sidhe in the shape of a swan! I shall have it, churl!"

"I shall not be molested at my own hearth!" Henry thundered. The knight's blade hissed as he wrenched it free of the scabbard on his hip as both men leapt to their feet.

Bernard snarled to his host, "It shall be your son's hearth ere the day is out!" He leapt towards the potter, whipping his sword at the man in a downward stroke. Henry stood before the blow, snatching up the ewer that brought the two into contention and interposing it between the blade and his flesh.

* * *

Over two centuries before, a Roman legion hunted down a raiding party of Moorish warriors that had somehow landed on Britannia's shores. They harried the dark-skinned raiders halfway across the isle, eventually brought them to bay, and slaughtered them to the last man.

But fifteen Moorish women and seven Moorish children were captured and sent to the block, auctioned as slaves. Two of those children, brothers, were bought by a wealthy potter who needed more hands to make the tiles in demand for the bath houses. They learned their new master's trade, and after a time earned their freedom.

The two brothers eventually went their separate ways, the elder to the lakes of Northumbria, where he settled in the bend of a river called the Goatsbow, and the younger east to the fens of Anglia (2). The two had never hinted to their master by word nor by deed that they commanded magic.

Though not even half-trained, the brothers had learned enough of magic to keep some knowledge alive, to pass it on. Pottery and crockery from Goatsbow became highly prized, because the magic that went into its making added beauty and strength. Henry knew that the ewer he had made for his son was stronger than any steel, and deflecting the first stroke by this upstart youngster would give him enough time to evict the troublemaker.

* * *

Sir Bernard, Knight Errant in service to Rex Arturio, scoffed and winced in his own head as the potter tried to halt his strike with the very thing that was the root of their disagreement. A small portion of his mind was disgusted with himself; his behavior was appalling. A much larger portion was incensed that this varlet would deny him anything.

He could only think that the potter hoped to preserve his futile existence by banking on the knight's reluctance to destroy the ewer, for even the meanest of blades would smash such a thing to flinders.

And the blade in his hands was no mean steel. It was the light of the full moon reflected from still waters, captured by magic and wrought into something greater than metal, forged by the hands of the sidhe into a blade that would endure beyond time. No, it was no mean steel that was wielded by the hand of this knight.

* * *

The skin of the earth shaped into an ewer met the teeth of the sky honed into a blade. The two magics, like opposing magnetic poles, repulsed one another: Gaia and Ouranos in eternal opposition. Each tried to unmake the other even as they sought drive it away.

They contested but a moment, for in the end, the fang is meant to pierce and tear the skin. The magic of the ewer was unmade, and the energies it held in careful balance unravelled.

Explosively.

Both Bernard and Henry were sent tumbling backwards. Henry hit the wall of the cottage with a muted thump, falling limply to the earth, while Bernard landed somewhat gracefully on his back, rolling like a log over the path until coming to a stop.

A single, sharp crack split the air, and a man was standing where none had stood a moment before. He was tall, attractive, and bald, dressed in a long robe of forest green wool, with a belt fashioned from a silver rope. The cuffs, hem, and neck of the robe were embroidered with intricate, looping knots in fine silver stitches.

"Arthur, Arthur!" he cried, looking frantically about him. Spying the dazed knight slowly sitting up in the midst of the path, he flew to him, robe snapping and pushed him back down. "Stay still," he growled, drawing a wand of warm, blonde wood and waving it over the knight.

"Martin?" Bernard murmured. "What do you here?"

"Lackwit," the robed figure scoffed. "Have you yet forgotten that I monitor magic about you?"

Bernard frowned, "Magic? But…" his eyes snapped to Henry, who was rising slowly to his feet, and his expression darkened. "Potter!" his voice snapped, drawing the older man's attention. "What manner of enchantment have you wrought upon me?"

Henry's lip curled into a sneer. "No beguilement have I placed upon you, whose hands are fit for nought but destruction. It is by your own heart and your own humors that you raised your hand to your host, false guest.

"Begone, false guest. You will find no welcome here." Magic flared from the land, caressing the knight and the newly arrived wizard with a warning, but gentle hum. The potter turned and limped towards the river.

"Please," asked the figure in green, "Please wait, master potter."

"I'll have no talk with thee, master wizard," Henry insisted with truculence.

Martin, called the Merlin for his quickness, agility, and temper, scowled. As his shoulders tightened, his magic flared, sweeping outwards and shattering the old, but clumsy, protections on the Pottery at Goatsbow, and a snap of his wand forced Henry to his hands and knees and ground his forehead into the earth.

"Magic you may have, master potter," Martin intoned ominously, stalking gently towards the now kowtowing Henry, "but manners you do not." Two subtle gestures from his wand had Henry suspended in the air, spread-eagle, and facing the wizard. Merlin locked eyes with the other man and spoke quite softly, " _Legilimens_."

The entire encounter between knight and craftsman played out in Martin's mind, and then he delved deeper. He saw the potter's life, and his ancestors, the tales he told and was told of those who came before. After a long, painful minute, Martin ended the connection and released the potter, who collapsed to the ground.

"Henry, son of James, son of Charles, I am Martin of Cymru, called the Merlin, advisor to His Majesty, Arthur of Cumberland, the Pendragon." He reached into his robe and pulled out two gold coins and a small scroll, dropping them in front of the kneeling Henry. "You will take one of these coins in recompense for the property destroyed by this knight. You will give the second, along with that scroll, to your son Edward.

"Edward shall use the second coin to fund his journey to the seat of His Majesty at Penrith, where he will become my apprentice. I shall teach him all that he is able to learn, and he shall teach me your methods of weaving magic into the very structure of your creations.

"Do not make me return, Henry son of James, for it will go ill with you." With a sharp half-turn, the green-robed wizard vanished once more, the crack far less striking this second time.

* * *

Henry never told his family the whole of the encounter, and Martin too kept his own counsel. Years later, Arthur Pendragon would name Martin's apprentice to his council, as Edward Potter, first Baron Potter.

 **Author's Note:** This scene kept badgering me. A bit of tarnish on Merlin and Arthur's legends, but really, peasants backtalking nobles never ends well for the peasant. I tried to maintain the formal lingual tone without digressing entirely into King James language. This IS canonical in the Lilyverse.

1\. I'm trying to get across the impression that Bernard started to say 'me' and turned it into 'my' at the last moment, but I don't think it worked very well.  
2\. Yes, this is a reference to the Sorting Hat's song from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, "shrewd Slytherin, from fen." I don't know if Slytherin being of Moorish descent is fanon or canon, but here… Oh yes, Harry, you're related to Salazar Slytherin after all. *cackle*

 **Casting  
** Bernard/Arthur - Bradley James  
Henry Potter - Oliver Cotton  
Martin/Merlin - Patrick Stewart (1996)


	5. Hidden Dragon

**Saturday, 11 September 1993 - Hogwarts - Professor Snape's Office**

Draco Malfoy was not doing anything so plebeian as sulking. A reasonable person could forgive an ignorant observer for making such a mistake, though, as young Master Malfoy was slouched low in a comfortable chair, with his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face. But no Malfoy would ever deign to engage in such a childish activity as sulking. Draco Malfoy was in fact engaged in solemn reflection.

Master Malfoy was in the awkward stage of growth between boy and man. He would be handsome when manhood weighted his bones and strengthened his muscles, but at this time he was still pretty, even effeminate. He had fine, pale hair, a narrow face with a slightly pointed chin, and perfectly regular features. Whether handsome or beautiful, Draco Malfoy was ill-served by his features at present.

His left eye was swollen shut, a trickle of blood from the outside corner of his eyebrow stained his skin, his lower lip was bloated and split. Underneath his shirt spectacular bruises marred his right side, and blood was copiously staining the bandage on his right arm where the blasted hippogriff had slashed him.

Draco fumed at the injustice of it all. He'd never before realized quite how much influence his father really had, and how little influence Draco had. He'd been set upon by five older students and given a sound thrashing, a demonstration that his attitude was unappreciated now that his father had been rendered impotent. Draco had fought back as best he could, but impotently until a striking jinx hit his eyebrow. Then he'd panicked and started using the Cameron Curse (1), a curse which shattered the target's kneecap and viciously shredded the ligaments of the joint. His father had taught it to him in case he was ever in truly serious danger, but only if he was in truly serious danger.

He'd come within a quarter inch of a burst eyeball; he considered that to be truly serious danger. Despite his attitude, Draco Malfoy was a most puissant wizard. He was within the top ten percent of his cohort physically, magically, and scholastically. He'd left all five of his assailants with totally ruined knees.

Now he was sitting in Professor Snape's office, glowering at nothing, awaiting his Head of House. When Sprout had found him and his attackers, she'd refused to let him go to the hospital wing, insisting that his injuries weren't that bad, and instead marched him into Professor Snape's office and made him wait.

The office door whispered open, and in stepped Professor Snape. Wordlessly, he closed the door and took his seat behind the desk, resting his elbows on the wooden surface and lacing his fingers together in front of his chin.

Severus Snape would be appalled if someone pointed out that his pose was identical to one favored by Albus Dumbledore, lacking only half-moon spectacles to peer over.

Draco met Snape's eyes with a defiant glare. They stared at one another in silence, Snape curious, Draco sullen.

"Five students so severely wounded they had to be evacuated to St. Mungo's. Three considered likely to have permanent impairment. One of those expected to require a cane or crutch for the rest of his life.

"What. Were. You. Thinking!?" the professor demanded.

Sullen, Draco dropped his gaze to the floor. This year had been a disaster. Even before the year had officially started, things had gone poorly for him. He hadn't worried over the summer, considering the decline in social invitations to be a sign of respect for his family's travails.

He had been mildly concerned on the Express. Parkinson, Nott, and Zabini had been occupied in situations he couldn't insinuate himself into; he'd had to spend the entire trip with only Crabbe and Goyle for company.

He had grown more concerned during the opening feast. His mockery of Potter hadn't drawn nearly the kind of response it would have last year. Only Parkinson had seemed amused, and not as much as he thought she should have. Zabini had been inscrutable and Nott contemptuous.

When Parkinson eschewed his company at the feast for Bulstrode's, it had finally dawned on him that his social position had not survived his father's arrest. He'd immediately begun planning his revenge. When Lucius Malfoy was vindicated, Draco Malfoy would make those who had abandoned him **suffer**.

The frosty attitudes and deliberate snubs of his peers, no, they were not his peers; House Malfoy was ascendant over all. They were his housemates only, and lesser than he. Their attitudes had left him distracted and inattentive, resulting in a serious injury during his first week.

Potter, of course, had decided that Draco was faking. The ignorant lout thought magic could fix anything immediately. Draco found amusement in playing along; it was so deliciously easy to get a rise out of Potter.

"Well?" Snape hissed, jerking Draco's thoughts to the present. Draco winced as his injuries reminded him of their existence.

"I was thinking that they were going to maim me, even kill me," Draco hissed in return, jerking his left hand to indicate his bruised eye. "They literally came within an inch of putting my eye out. I stopped the fight as fast as I could."

Snape sighed, leaning back and frowning. "Unfortunately, your record is against you."

"My record is spotless!" Draco protested, freezing at the professor's contemptuous snort.

"Please," Snape drawled, "spare me this arrogance. Every member of staff from Dumbledore to the loo-cleaning elf is aware of your habit of provoking and escalating confrontations. You were simply too well-connected for anyone to properly discipline you.

"Now, your father is in jail, and his 'supporters' are scattering to the four winds and trying very hard to not be noticed."

"My father will be vindicated!" Draco insisted.

Snape watched him inscrutably. "We shall see," he allowed. "Now, your punishment. You are suspended from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for a two-week period beginning Monday, September 13th. You will be escorted home by your mother. As student cases were transferred to St. Mungo's, the DMLE has become involved, and you are to consider yourself under house arrest. If you are still under house arrest at the conclusion of your suspension, you will be returned to school with your movements restricted to class, your common room and dorm, and the Great Hall during meals. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Draco growled.

"Remain here until your mother arrives," Snape directed. "I shall fetch Madam Pomfrey to attend your injuries."

 **Wednesday, 15 September 1993 - Avebury, Wiltshire - Malfoy Manor**

Tall, slender, and beautiful, Narcissa Malfoy was the picture of an aristocratic young matron, save for the scowl on her face. Her husband was in jail and the case against him was growing more solid by the day. And now this.

She angrily burst into the den where her son was working on his schoolwork, making him jump and spill his ink. He turned to glower at her but quailed immediately. Her wand was in her hand and a silent spell had her son yelping and grabbing his ear.

"How I birthed such a fool I know not," she sighed. Narcissa crossed the room with vexed steps and took a seat opposite her son. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"Defended myself," Draco muttered, slouching back into his seat and carelessly waving his wand, cleaning the spilled ink before it could dry. It ruined half his essay, he noted with a sigh.

"That's what the DMLE concluded," Narcissa agreed. "You face no criminal charges, although you have been issued a caution against using excessive force in self-defence. Our solicitors reached an agreement with your supposed 'victims' where we will be fiscally responsible for their initial medical expenses, including rehabilitation."

"So what's got your wand in a knot-" Draco yelped and grabbed at his ear again as Narcissa seethed.

"You will not use such vulgar language with me," she ordered in clipped phrases. "And what has me vexed is that it's now a near-certainty that your father will be convicted. The boy you crippled is the great-grandson of Lord Travers on his father's side and the grandson of Lord Rosier on his mother's.

"Two possible votes for your father's vindication now certainly to be cast for condemnation." Draco's hands shook as he paled.

"You do understand what you've done," Narcissa continued viciously. "Your father was always certain to be expelled from the House of Magi. They still remember Byron Crouch's attempt to bring both Parliament and the Ministry of Magic under his own personal control. But he might have stayed out of prison, until you raised your wand to the close descendant of two pureblood lords."

"But father's a powerful wizard and a powerful lord with powerful friends," Draco protested. Narcissa gave her son an incredulous look.

"You really believe that," she said pityingly, shaking her head. "That a son of mine is such a fool… oh the shame of it.

"Draco, your father is a powerful wizard, yes," Narcissa admitted. "He was a powerful lord. But all his power came from bribery, intimidation, and blackmail. Your father doesn't have friends; he doesn't even have allies. He has associates and underlings. He is almost universally hated by all of them, and he's now vulnerable.

"Your father is going to Azkaban, Draco, and we'll be rendered almost powerless. And there's nothing we can do about it."

 **Thursday, 16 September 1993 - Malfoy Manor**

The sun hadn't yet risen when something grabbed Draco by the ankle and hauled him up into the air. He did not yelp - he would never do something so undignified - he grunted in a manly manner. Twisting in midair, trying to comprehend why he was floating upside down, he saw his mother standing in the doorway of his bedroom, wand out and pointed towards him.

Wearing a plain black robe, with her hair tightly braided and pinned into a bun, she had an implacable expression on her face as she jerked her wand. Draco bobbed towards the ceiling momentarily before the spell ended, dropping him unceremoniously on his bed.

"You have ten minutes to get dressed and present yourself in the south receiving hall," his mother said coldly. "I will be training you for six hours every day until the end of your suspension."

Narcissa turned with a graceful spin, gliding out of the room and leaving him chilled with her last words, "Do **not** be late."

Narcissa Malfoy had always been a nurturing presence in Draco's life. She had soothed his hurts, protected him, and cherished him. Her new attitude was confusing, even frightening. Draco realized as he was dressing that whatever came of his father's trial, his mother wouldn't nurture him gently, but fiercely. Perhaps he should have been a Ravenclaw; he had a feeling that Narcissa was about to push him out of the nest.

Draco reached his mother, gasping for breath, three seconds before her deadline expired.

Narcissa nodded curtly, "Good. You will be here, dressed and ready, every morning at five o'clock. You will have your wand and whatever you think you can get away with. Expect a standard Hogwarts inspection of your person every morning. Do you understand?"

"Turn out pockets, scan for dangerous magic?" Draco asked. His mother responded with a sharp nod.

Draco nodded respectfully in return, just restraining a moment of churlishness as he saw his mother's wand twitch. "Yes, mother," he agreed.

Narcissa watched him with a blank expression for a long moment, then nodded again. "Acceptable. We will train for two hours, and take breakfast at seven. Training will resume at eight, and continue until noon. The remainder of the day is yours, although I will be reviewing your schoolwork each night at nine."

"What training will we be doing?" Draco asked. Narcissa struck like a snake, viciously fast, with an ear-twisting jinx. Her son yelped and clutched his ear.

"You will be learning to take a beating," she told him. His eyes widened and he took a step back. Narcissa shook her head sadly, "Fool."

"Mother?"

"You act as though I intend to just beat you for six hours every day," she answered with exasperation. "No. You'll be learning how to subtly reinforce your body with magic to reduce the damage you take, how to wandlessly perform minor impact and spell shields, and how to ameliorate the blows you do take.

"We are no longer in a position of strength, Draco. You are going to learn how to make those stronger than you think they've won."

Draco sighed and nodded, "Yes, mother."

"And if you learn well enough, then you will learn how to destroy them from a position of weakness."

* * *

Narcissa's dark eyes shimmered as she leaned over son, her fingertips gently working a healing balm into the skin along his jaw. Her breath hitched ever so slightly as she whispered, "I'm sorry."

Though the sun shone brightly through the window and the sky was a bright blue, the moment was lonely. It was as though they were the only two people in the world, huddled under a blanket of darkness and stars. Draco shook off the feeling, attributing it to the fatigue of being dragged out of bed before dawn.

"Why are you doing this?" If his tone carried the undercurrents of a whine, neither he nor she acknowledged it. Her lips brushed against his forehead, and her arms pulled him into her lap as she sat back, cuddling him as though he were a toddler.

Draco felt vaguely as though he should protest, but the moment was too precious to break.

"Because I love you," she murmured. "Because you are the most precious thing in my world. And if I let you go on as you have been, you'll be dead or broken before you come of age."

Narcissa sighed. "It's a common belief that what happens at Hogwarts doesn't matter. Mostly, that's true. Hogwarts is as much about learning social skills as it is about magic, a place to make mistakes when the stakes are low.

"But your father never quite played by those rules. He exercised his own power to protect you from the consequences of your actions within Hogwarts as well as without. He ignored the rules, and that was fine when we were too powerful to be called to account.

"Now we can be called to account, and your father established the precedent. What you do in Hogwarts will have consequences outside the castle. I have no doubt," she chucked his chin lightly, "that I could teach you to be the most fearsome fighter in the student body, and that you could make a few examples and the students would leave you alone."

"But their families wouldn't," Draco realized. "They'd revenge my actions on you, or on father, or on House Malfoy as a whole."

"Yes. So you need to learn how to be strong in weakness."

"Thank you, mother," Draco squirmed free and gave his mother a proper hug. "I love you too."

* * *

On Tuesday, November 2nd, 1993, Lucius Malfoy was found guilty, stripped of his Lordship, and sentenced to 25 years incarceration in Azkaban. House Malfoy avoided attainder by three votes.

Harry Potter offered Draco Malfoy honest sympathy, which Draco accepted with unexpected grace.

 **Wednesday, 03 November 1993 - Hogwarts - Transfiguration Corridor**

Draco eyed the five students in front of him, frowning. They were led by Jasper Wilkes, the elder brother of the student Draco had crippled earlier this year. All five were openly brandishing their wands and smirking. Draco's eyes darted left and right… the corridor was entirely empty. He sighed.

"Shall we get it over with?" he said.

"You think it will go easier if you don't fight back?" one demanded.

"Of course I-" mid-sentence, Draco flung his schoolbag at them and sprinted away. A quick wand motion scattered ball bearings behind him as he fled. Draco managed to lose them two floors down. He sighed and escaped to the Slytherin dorms.

He needed to write his mother for new books and redo his assignments.

 **Saturday, 13 November 1993 - Hogwarts - Main Entrance**

Draco trudged wearily towards the entrance. Quidditch practice had been brutal. He was looking forward to his bed and sleeping until noon. Focused only on his weariness, he completely missed the whispered spell that sent him crashing chin first onto the stone steps leading to the great doors.

Narcissa Malfoy was one of the most dangerous witches alive. While her sister Bellatrix Lestrange was the most dangerous and most infamous, neither Narcissa nor Andromeda were far behind in either talent or power, and Narcissa had taught her son well in the time she'd had. Despite the pain of his broken teeth, Draco defended himself quite effectively without his attackers ever realizing he was doing so.

Eventually his assailants abandoned their assault. Had he not needed his teeth repaired, Draco wouldn't have even bothered with the hospital wing. _At least they didn't get my broom._

 **Sunday, 26 December 1993 - Malfoy Manor**

Draco smirked as he read the Prophet headline.

YULE TRAGEDY - CHRISTMAS CURSES LEAVE SEVEN IN ST. MUNGO'S

He skimmed through the article, certain phrases lodging in his mind. "...Christmas gifts with strong dark curses attached…" "...six month stay in the hospital…" "...underage scion of minor Wilkes branch identified by Owl Post office employee…" "...suspect shows evidence of self-inflicted Memory Charms…" "...friends say '[Suspect] was always free with his curses'..." "...DMLE expects sentence of 'at least two years in minimum security'..."

 _Most wizards are stupid,_ Draco concluded. Once he had remembered Potter's story of Dobby's intervention, it had been terribly easy to arrange for Jasper Wilkes to be framed, with the added benefit of cursing all Wilkes' little minions. He contemplated Memory Charming himself, but decided not to. If he were investigated that would be more suspicious than not. He also wanted to savor his victory.

He'd been at a Yule Celebration when the curses were sent, anyway. Polyjuice Potion was a wonderful thing.

It was good to be a Slytherin.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** This was hard for me to write. I have a real problem taking Draco seriously. I blame Rowling. She sets Draco up as Harry's rival/antagonist, but she also sets up Voldemort as Harry's primary antagonist, thus suggesting a congruence between the two. That makes it very difficult for me, at least, to see Draco as anything but a joke, protected by Plot Armor.

So this is me taking a stab at self-improvement.

1\. A reference to Terminator 2: Judgment Day. Pretend the curse influenced the movie rather than the other way around.

 **Cast  
** Draco Malfoy - Taron Egerton  
Severus Snape - Adam Driver  
Narcissa Malfoy - Helena Bonham-Carter

Thank Meneldur for their time and care. My work is much improved with their aid.


End file.
